Whoever said
by PassionsInsanity
Summary: 7 Short one-shots. Whoever said all that, must be such a fool. Whoever said all of that, probably never watched Flashpoint. WARNING, contains spoilers!


**Whoever said, love doesn't hurt, is such a fool.**

Darkness. It was something he would never get used to. It was something he never could get used to. Every single time, he would see it, approach it, be swallowed by it and be tortured by it. Every time, it would sting and it would bite and it would kill him slowly until he closed his eyes, drifted off to sweet memories reminiscent of the sound of the ocean and be greeted by the red-glory dawn. These shades were something he could not fight. He could not negotiate with the wailing shadows that were lurking every corner in his house.

Sighing, Greg Parker opened the door that lead to a four-wall building some called 'home'. The keys were tossed on the side table with a soft dangling sound, the echoes of metal hitting wood vibrating through the deserted house. The door closed with a simple push and the last light of the moon was shut out. Complete, utter, silent darkness. Overwhelming. Consuming. Filling up the hole in his chest, expanding until Greg felt like he would explode.

Despondent footsteps saturated the hall until Greg reached the light switch. For a second, he wondered. The light would not make this house full, nor lighter, it would not remedy the silence nor the darkness. Still, his finger pushed the cold plastic piece down and suddenly, the shadows were cast away and it seemed to hurt less. Almost satisfied, Greg smiled weakly and took off his coat. Once turned towards the hat-rack, his smile faltered and he was, again, taken over by a feeling of solemn depression.

It was the worst moment of his day. Coming home alone, by himself, be welcomed by a cold and lonely house. Never would he hear his son shout from upstairs that there were monsters under his bed. Never would he have to put a stop to the whining to stay up late. Never would he come home and curse, nearly breaking his neck when stepping on a toy. Never would he come home and be able to flee in someone's arms. Missing those things, those stupid, silly things that if he would experience them every day, he would get angry be or feel annoyed, missing those things hurt the most. And he would give anything to have those moments, if only, to hold his son in his arms.

**Whoever said, you could always make a difference, is such a fool.**

The shots had been clear and clean, vibrating in his ear, unaware making his hands tremble, if only slightly. Never before, had those shots sounded so loud and so devastating in his mind. Never before, had they penetrated the invisible shields he had build during his time in Afghanistan and left him somewhat lost and confused.

This was not the way it should have ended. Sarge had made the connection with the subject, he was de-escalating, it looked so good. That must have been the reason why Sam let his guard down, why the adrenaline in his veins was processed and less rigid. Slowly, his mind went into stand-by mode and it took him too long to notice the negotiation went downhill and his finger took too long to squeeze the trigger. He was too late.

Through his scope, he could only see a miniscule part of the world, but it had been filled with blood and hollow eyes. His ears were filled with the sounds of the woman screaming as tragedy stroke upon her.

And so Sam found himself, walking away from his rifle, greeting the edge on the other side of the building. He rested his hands on the yellow-like concrete and the cold wind blew through his hair. He had taken his gloves off. There was a whirlwind inside his muscular body, sweeping through his emotions, tearing everything apart, leaving nothing but dust and broken bits and pieces of his weary mind. Vociferous he kicked against the wall and screamed, softly, not to be heard.

If only his father could see him now.

**Whoever said, you can't love him all, is such a fool. **

Donna's words echoed through his mind. He went over them rapidly, unstoppable like a freight train, flipping through them, running them backwards. The feeling he got from it, however, couldn't be denied and couldn't be turned around.

Wordy couldn't help but wonder, what if? The bastard could have killed his own daughters, had they been older. What if were his daughters that got killed? Would he remain his still composure and speak those words of wise wisdom? He sighed as he stared out the window of his darkened car and his gaze met his haven. His church. His home. The one place that he would come home to and be able to erase the memories, if only for a little while.

While walking towards his porch, the thoughts came back and haunted him. Almost visible and touchable, shadows chasing him like his own shade, scratching his smooth skin with long nails, leaving bloody trails. They knew. They might not be seen, but they knew his thoughts, his desire. How wrong he felt when he spoke to Donna and how right he knew he was at the same time. Clean hands.

His house was his castle, and the moment he opened the door, he could smell the scent of baked cookies, lemonade and his wife's perfume mixed with the smell of diapers. Almost magically, the shadows and the thoughts vanished till the point of no recognition.

One by one, Wordy went past the doors, opened them and watched them sleep. He would enter quietly, hushed, crawling through the night. He would tuck them in even though it wasn't always necessary. He would touch them shortly, not wanting to wake them up, before planting a gently kiss on their heads. Walking out the room, he would look over his shoulder and smile, waves of the ocean flushing over his body. This was his ethereal complacency.

This was his castle of love.

**Whoever said, lightning never strikes twice, is such a fool. **

It struck, hard, rigid, adamant and sudden. He appeared only shortly in Ed's scope, appeared like a tornado, flashed before his eyesight. His body was conquered by the lightning and crumbled down under the thunder. Thunder made his bones shake and his legs wobble. His breath caught in his throat, fear running down his nerves like water ran over his body. Gasping, he tried to control himself.

It struck, hard, rigid, adamant and sudden. Wrongful death. As if killing someone wasn't hard enough, bad enough, terrible enough. He could wash his hands every time he came home, eradicate the blood, rub off the shaky feelings, cleanse his hands of the dirt, but the thoughts stuck to his mind like a leech, sucking all his energy away, keeping his mind flowing like a rollercoaster. While walking away, he tried to control himself.

It struck, hard, rigid, adamant and sudden. All bad things haunt you until you die, someone once told Ed. He never knew how true those words were when they realised it was him. The anxiety that overtook him, the fear that almost overpowered him, it nearly wore him down. His family in danger, the two persons that he would come home to and be safe and rescued from the demons.

It hit again, hard, rigid, adamant and sudden. Jules, magnificent, big Jules. Down on the floor like a wet carbon box, helpless like a whelp. The thought that this was all his fault nagging his brain. Ed didn't care much about what would happen next. The scumbag had touched his family, no one was allowed to touch his family. The scumbag had touched Jules, no one was allowed to touch his family. And the blood on his hands took control.

He was blinded by lightning, deafened by thunder.

**Whoever said, bravery saves the world, is such a fool.**

Her heart was pounding, hitting against the insides of her chest like a steady drum beat, shaking her bones, making her legs sway under the weight of an undeniable panic. She stood too close to the edge again. She dared to look over the crossing and stare down the bottomless pit, resisting the uncontrollable shivers that ran down her spine. Fighting like a Japanese warrior against the shadows that grabbed her ankles.

Jules was a big girl, the tough girl. She had fought to be here, to be standing here, she deserved this spot. So she was going to be just like the guys, just as tough, just as careless, just as the action figures they are. By now, being one of them was almost a routine. She blended in perfectly, automatically adjusting to fit in properly. Most of the time, she didn't think they even noticed.

But now, now she stood, leaning against a dark blue locker, praying that the shaking of her hands would stop so she could hold onto the metal cabinet to sit down before her legs gave in. She had lost all control over her body, breathing fast and rapid, eyes wide open but seeing only a little. She was flying blind.

Jules told herself, this had to stop. She had deserved her spot, she had earned her spot, she didn't always need to walk in the same way the guys did, she didn't always have to run in the same pace. Keeping up with them, was all she needed to do. Pushing herself would only end up in pushing herself off that cliff. Into destruction and hopeless exhaustion.

**Whoever said, geeks know everything, is such a fool.**

He was sweating heavily. They we're calling in his ear, shouting. His hands involuntary quivering as they moved over the wires. Time was ticking, the beat of the clock echoing through his skin, stabbing his mind every time. His mind was racing. This was it. Now or never. Life or death. He hated it.

Spike ran a hand over his face, felt the moisture on his skin and the heat radiating of his skin. Red lights symbolised how close he was to the end of the tunnel, counting down the time left as if it was a toy no one wanted to play with again.

Still, God was merciful and he heard his boss tell him everybody was out and safe. It took some pressure of his shoulders, but they were still heavy with the weight he was carrying. They called Spike the expert for a reason. He was on the team for a reason. He could not fail, he held the knowledge that now needed to be used.

He was running through a maze, chasing a apparition, a phantom illusion. He was running, running so fast, his legs were tired, his sides throbbing, the cold air cut like razorblades in his throat. When he was asked if he could detonate the bomb, Spike could only reply he didn't know.

Time's up, walk away. And so he did, exiting the maze like a defeaten soldier, head down, lingering thoughts, conscientious footsteps.

**Whoever said, 'it going to be okay', is such a fool.**

This was it. He knew it. He could feel it. He had reached his final destination, despite his wishes. Last round, time to get aboard the night train. This was the end. He knew it. He could feel it. Deep within his heart, his soul, he felt as if he had let go already. As if his mind had made the decision before he knew it himself. As if the moment he stepped on the mine, when the sound of the click reached his ears and the spikes tickled his senses, his heart had stopped beating.

The only thing he wanted to know when he realised his friend wouldn't let him go down and Lou would most likely bring him down with him, was to call his parents, his father, his mother. Completely pointless, but it felt right at the moment. At least then they could say he was thinking of them. He didn't want to leave without saying goodbye to them.

The words had left his mouth before he understood he had said them out loud. He carefully picked his words, but he wasn't prepared for it to happen so soon. It was as if someone suddenly pushed him through that door that read 'exit'.

"It's going to be okay."

Right.

It was never going to be okay again.


End file.
